The Sweet Taste Of Misconception
by Kamineko
Summary: What is real? Memories and emotions or facts and matter? My own alternative story with Chani and the strange things that could have happened to her...
1. Default Chapter

The Sweet Taste Of Misconception 

There is some time now, since I have decided that this like is no longer mine. I do not have the gift of words that my primary so-called rival has, but I am quite keen that most that will read these pages one day, for I intend on making them for keeps, will not misinterpret my words. I never meant to deliberately live for the better of keens. This kind of attitude comes as a pack when one is born amidst a people as calotiously traditional as my people. Even though survival is the key of every moment's breath it is commonly understood that every breath is for the sake of everybody else too. It is hard not to be a "part" when one lives the fragmentized life of hide and travel that the desert demands. Therefore I think it is fair to say that I have always been prepared to live my life for the better of the people. But that was only one part of me, as school and education can never fully describe anyone anywhere. Maybe the Benne Gesserit, I still do not know enough about them to say but I reckon that school is somehow building a full description for anyone who attends it. There was once an idea that I would be fit for that school. I am only sorry I never got the courage to shatter that illusion about me since I find it all wrong and outrageously diminishing. This would never fit me. Not by a long run, rest assured of that.

I guess I am moving further from the main idea, a literary mistake that I am sure **she** would never make except for the purpose of expressing something intentionally. I have been reading a lot for the past years and I can very well talk about literature and instruments of manipulating it. For an artistic scope. Yes, even in this time and place, my place, I can mention manipulation for ends other than political power. Even though some might find this unimportant and irrelevant I find these other ends far more worthy than any kind of objective purpose that I see all around me animates people into actions that could mildly be called pathetic.

I found myself in the place I am now. Life just swept me towards it. People would be wrong if they thought that along the way I didn't fantasize of getting back the control of my life. Especially after reading so many stories from foreign worlds, from people not so daily obsessed with life, death and survival. There was a time when I would call them all wrong, since they never got in touch with the real life, but now I find judgments are hard to be made for they saw many things we never figured would come our way.

My life is of those that live of me. Those to whom I gave them my body, spirit and heart. I gave them freely and dare I say knowingly even though I was just child in those days. Little did I know of the tricks life plays on you. I am not nor happy nor discontent with that decision since it is far long ago that I took it. More even I was never aware that I was taking a decision. I was just dancing on the drums of heart. As I am doing now. As I probably always will and that will be the end of it.

Many people see me as half-a-witch, not to be tempted, not to be feared, not to be understated, not to be fully respected. My words count for life but my life counts for so little. And so much yet. My selfishness stops me from seeing things as they probably are. I am more concerned with my shapeless sadness and its shadowy reasons. I wished I believed some will read this one day and for at least a while my words will be measured alongside everyone else's, especially **her**, who puts it all so lovely, so lovingly. I am less lost in my dreams and desires as her, since I suppose I got mine turned real. Therefore I can re-become selfish and look to the part of the soul where I never dare sink deep for too long. The place of absolute ego, of absolute wrong and right, a place of pain for everyone dealing with this shallow life of us.

Back then... to whom I am. **I** am. It is a literary wrong to use one word as obsessively as I use **I**. I do not believe in the policy of individualism that rules on other planets. I am only saying what I feel. I would hate if one day my words will become intellectual toys for anyone trying to casually diminish and despise those whom I, with all my heart and never hate. It is **I** who I hate... It is I...


	2. The Enemy

**The Enemy **

For some time now I have begun to dream of my childhood. That lesser me, so fresh and unknowing, constantly depend on something seems so apart from my daily self, as if the spice has carved through my body a channel dividing my world. The past me and the present me and the future me, seen as different persons bonded together solely through the incredible force of time unifying everything, bringing sense to everything, making my decisions the obvious seams that weave my life into a whole. Yet I know it is me who stands at the end of all these, it must be me living this life. During the night I loose all strings, I am bounded to my chair like a spectator watching my life going by back and forth, back and forth till I no longer care where it all leads to.

On one part it is my life back then - nothing but a puzzle of details, the smaller facts that grown-ups no longer care for, a collection of glimpses that my smaller body seemed possessed by. The corner of the table, a drop of water I dared to spill, a soft blue fabric tearing apart, a hand gripped on my arm rushing me through the distortedly huge grains of sands. My own legs, soft and powerless, a peril for the good of the tribe, my weak arms, my useless tongue. I was a prisoner of myself, desperate for help from the others.

I dream I am bound to this body I have no control over. I dream I wake up to my mature self who marches through a life I did not weave. Did I choose it? When did I pick that string leading me here, into this bed, next to this man I know as a boy in my dreams at night? He told me he dreamed of me, even before we met. He knew me. He chose but I did not. One has no choice when one's in love. And that I was and that I still am.

During daytime I stay real quite and move behind invisible veils that hide me from the others. I know everyone's name, their stories and their past weaved into mine. Friends, family, acquaintances, enemies, friends, lovers, enemies, acquaintances, people of no importance, servants - they are but an endless raw of figures passing through my life. I answer to them, I get angry, I am mean, I do all the things I know they expect from me, the things I expect from me and yet I feel so lost.

The spice gives me no rest lately. The more I take the blurrier the vision fades. I see nothing anymore. My body gets all tensed and my heart is strangled by the rush of feelings ruling my world. All that it reveals to me are my own desperate wishes, the child I want, the child I lost (the pain still so strong and withering), the hands I long so to touch me. Constantly. I would stay in his embrace forever. I would loose myself into the icy world of future and death that I see mirrored into his eyes, into his skin, into the shine of his hair, that world so apart from me.

I want to know that world. It is a desire stronger than the need to breathe. I want to explore it to its never found borders, map it with my hands. I want to see that world. I have always wanted this even before we met. The spice made me realize my whole life, from the moment I strode out of my mother, has been aimed to this conclusion, to this journey. I no longer now if this is true or it is just a proof of my love. Nor do I care.

He never lets me in. He used to tell me bits of it, like sending postcards from distant planets. He asked me what I though of it but my words got lost into the freezing air of a desert's dawn. I always begin but I never end my sentences. What is there to say? I want to touch that world. I feel no pity for him now. I wonder if I ever felt. How can one love somebody and feel no pity for their pain? Maybe mercy is not about love, but is about being afraid of death of pain. Like buying the mercy of God by sharing it for the others. Something so efficient, so self-oriented, so cheap and meaningless in comparison with love. The millions who come on this planet in a search of a quick way to bliss would bother less if they only knew that mercy is just commerce while love is never on stock.

Alia adores playing with market predictions. She is a prisoner of her wishes so much so. She tries to buy our attention with the monstrous revelations she has about things she never really lived. Even as a child she told us everything. Every single last detail of her dreams and thoughts. Was it the mere innocence of a child or her mature thinking that had made her say such things? Was she not skillful enough to grasp the terror of the elder when she said those things? She did not want admiration, she just played the card of pity. She hoped to buy the grown-ups' pity by sharing the horrible details of her existence. She has always been such a master in the puzzle of feelings. Quite a performance that thing she does. But she never won, did she? Not even once. Not even in front of her mother. To her I have always been the necessary accessory of her brother. A guaranty that her over-matured mind, lost from her present self, would not play her tricks into the identity of the one person who can understand her, the one man who can truly know her. And yes, he does know his own sister, he knows her and owns her heart by the same tricky games of efficient emotions. She loves him therefore she would never appeal to his mercy.

I have a low compassion for my fellow humans. I was raised that way. Not to help others be happy but to show them how to survive. By means of surviving myself. Maybe if I had not been brought up to this imminent destiny of Sayyadina would have known the other side of mercy. I would have pitied him and reach for his own pity when my time is to do just so.


	3. The Desperate

**The Desperate**

Every day I count the moments when my passion arises like a wave. It comes and goes beyond my calling. I can ignore it or embrace it, it never stops constructing me. It's funny how all our identity is just a puzzle of what others think of us. Little details we fill in our personality to suit their needs, their demands of us. When they leave those gestures to replay themselves to exhaustion like a sacred ritual to call our destiny .. to call it back… to bring our purpose of gestures back. After a while the memory fades and we become the lesser of who we were before the parting, the same person and yet less of what we could be, unachieved, uncompleted… useless. And my gestures fall apart along with arms and hands which once expressed this passion, because he has left my identity and there is nothing to cling on my heart upon.

The memories of my birth are so fake and faded. All about words from other people's mouth. I envy Alia for knowing all that she is and how she became who she is, for knowing, for manipulating for being so able to be consciounsly her. Much like Jessica, but in a more seductive way, the way of those who remember.. everything. I am sure I have forgotten so much; my life is less than half my own because I remember such few things and I am sure of even fewer. Once Alia used to talk to me and answer all my questions, though I do not remember these conversations it is in my brain the conviction that we had them. I can remember the places and the flavor of the coffee we had and how the light came in and all those little details. She now looks through me as if I did not exist a look only aimed to pierce my heart since it reminds me so much of how he looks at me with those which even though they are no longer so, I see them as green.

With every day I feel remote from them all, and even though this had become an accustomed situation I feel on the back of my neck the knowing thrill that this is a new situation dedicated entirely to the new… me. When have I changed? Have I? Have they? The impossibility of finding out freezes my life away.

And yet with every day that my identity is being engraved into this new raw material, I feel more and more swept away to a reality that my skin, my brain, my hands, my feet know as true. A universe I no longer know how I remember. It now seems so false and feels so true.

If I dare recall it all then there is this one night. A couple of weeks ago I suppose. That feeling of acute reality when we dream. Is this how **their **prophecies feel like? I was coming out of a dark wet red place I knew was not my mother. I was nothing and around me were beings that I knew were not people but were all my keen. I felt alone in their universe and I knew that they would mould me into something they needed. There was nothing I could do to resist that. Before I knew, I embraced their new form and I felt rejoiced into my new self. But I woke and felt ashamed and scared of whom I was and there was none around me anymore to bring me back at who I wanted to be.

And so my gestures started to fade.

But the passion remains. It's not in me, it's outside of me in the way he talks, even the way looks at me as if trying not to see me (what is he trying to see), or how he avoids addressing to me, or how he sometimes studies me with those dark blue eyes so electric and deep that I wonder – have I done something wrong and he awaits for me to undo it? I would change it, I would everything, I would change myself into a new shell, only if he could to the sense of seeing me, the way I want to be seen, the way I know I have been seen.

This new thought makes me feel a thrill like panic inside me. It is scary how determined this desire to change is and how easy I feel it is, simply because I know that our life is nothing but a wind carrying our passion. And mine is to be seen, to me, to change to be seen, to change to be touched, only by him, only for him.

I think I got it all wrong. It's not every other people that make us who we are, it's some people that cringe to our molding forms like birds of prey. And then we are trapped inside this new dream formed in our brains and everything we are just disappears, and then we change… and then we are seen…

Maybe forgiving is a way a change. Like leaving the past away and forgetting who we were. I want to forgive, I want to forgive everyone for my pain, for this passion they leave to devour me from within until I am left as ashes. Maybe this way the memories will fade I will become something new, something formless in its beauty to express freedom, to embrace love, to express love… to feel love, to receive love.

I will forget everyone and then they will be able to enter my life in a new way, in complete joy, after they had awaited me, and then when we embrace it all we will all be able to be the best of who we are.

I only want to be left to be the woman I remember being. To forget that moment that – in all honesty it might have been a dream, I cannot be sure – when he looked at me as if he saw me and then said to me, denying everything that I thought I might have seen in those eyes I knew as green, "I know who you are. You are not her."


	4. Coming Back Ages

Coming Back Ages

_Prologue:_

_This is a letter from us, Soul Dancers, and we used to be alone for a long time in this world where there is other than humanity that exists. We pray you not to murder her, our sister. That part of us whom we have given to you in an act of faith, and peace. Is there no more time for love in your heart? Has the future stolen it all?..._

"There it is. Our soul. We give it to you freely. To do as you wish. And then you throw it back to us with questioning eyes. What did those Bene Gesserit did to you, we wonder... You claim to be your own, you claim to know the essence of what is being human, and you even claim to know what it takes to salvage this humanity from death. And yet we doubt all of the above because we know it is with predator eyes you watch humanity, like a game with pieces and holes. How to fit the pieces, where to find the holes. Always questions, thus is the world for you. But we know, and we would tell you if you ever listened to us Muad'dib that the world is only answers and nothing more. But then again you have been lifted by the promise of God-ness and the sweet promise of tomorrow is the only one quenching you thirst.

You will die, soon, because you are NOT a God, but only a man, less than the women who created you. Your mother. Did any son spent more time inventing his own freedom than you? Others may be fooled but we know you would give anything, including your soul, to earn back that which it is you owe to her. And you do owe her your life, given or taken everything that she has done to you afterwards. Always out of love, as any mother, not dreams of greatness as you coldly accuse her off.

You think you have the right to judge the weak. The weak that threaten you society, your perfectly horrific dream, one you imagine have created from visions and will. Who are you to decide who is weak and who is not? Who are you to oppose the course of history? If humankind is to die, who gives you the right for delay, who gives you the right to fight?

You are incapable of love, you only understand loyalty, as all Noble born are. One betrayal is death and a misspent sincerity brutally punished. And there it is the all permissive, ever justifying law of the Fremen to justify it all. Yet even the Fremens fear you, they have always done so. We should know because she-of-us was also amongst them when you came and throw them on in the carriage of the history you were about to make.

If it had only been for kanly we might have thought it excusable. Or understandable. Or human. But I find it infinitely harsh the way you used this easy justification to climb and weave your cloth of religion. Was it blinding us a purpose in itself or just acceptable and comfortable by-product of a higher and even more horrible ambition you must have had? You knew everything. You still do. It was said in the old that the future is only revealed so that you can change it. And what did you ever do to change it? You played by the book, you played by all books, this is not proof of ever wanting to make a change. You lied. And it was the Bene Gesserit training that taught you how to conceal it.

People do not need religion when they have love. Love, love, all around passion, desire and lust for the world. Then come people like You, who claim to know a higher a purpose, who invent a higher a purpose, people who would not sacrifice anything out of love because they can't. They are the slaves of nobility and honor and power. The ultimate excuse for hurting those who love you.

Like her, such as she is, taking place of your dead lover, taking her form, being her and then loving you thinking, how silly of me, that is the ultimate coin that would save anything or anyone. There were once religions that encouraged that, I do remember, saying the ultimate achievement of a human is to love. Not yours it isn't. Yours is about obeying, yours is about sufferance, yours is about YOUR endless misery of always being cast away from humanity in your iron palace. Enjoy.

We remembered the hands of the masters, the hands of your lover Chani when Scytale was a man she once knew and loved before you came, and before she dies, before he became that part of us which would love you. Probably she would not have it any other way. SHE would forgive us because she would know that she-of -us is in love with you.

And this is a gesture of kindness, you little fool. How would you feel if I told you that your mistress was just casualty of war in a way we tried to regain the freedom of human galaxies? Would it not be gentler to pay her enough attention for a careful copy, such a lovingly attentive copy that would end up in your ever faithful trey of suffering idiots and still sacrifice everything for you? You fascination is complete, this proves. For whatever you were or are you have become the ever-potent God you aimed to be. Your enemies still fall in love with you.

Now find that famous courageous cruelty on which you hang upon all your claims to humanity and kill her.

You, sad God. Enjoy eternity."


End file.
